


Sam

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: Sam will always be Sam.





	Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 round of spn-springfling. Trans!Sam.

She sleeps a lot these days.  
  
Dean theorises it must be like when she was a teenager — gangly limbs and height that propped up overnight, needing fuel and rest to get that way.  
  
“You’ll hit 7 foot at this rate,” he teases, and Sam just throws a dirty sock at him.  
  
This time, though, it isn’t height she’s putting on. It’s curves and soft skin. Dean loves to run his hands over it all until she’s hard and begging him for more.  
  
Sam is Sam is Sam. Dean’s brother and best friend and partner and soulmate. Now  _brother_  might be  _sister_  and she might dress differently some days, but nothing much else has changed.  
  
She did start letting other people call her Sammy, which gave Dean is a jealous burning in his stomach —  
  
“What happened to only me getting to call you that?” he’d asked outside a bar one night, pressing her against the wall and kissing the breath from her.  
  
“Don’t you think it suits me better now?” She’s gasped when they broke apart.  
  
“How about Samantha?”  
  
“Okay.” A coy smile and more kissing  
  
— and Samantha or just plain old Sam replaces it. Dean still whispers Sammy late at night or when he’s rocking inside her, mouth cupping the shell of her ear. It makes her moan and come hard against him, her entire body shuddering as she comes down from the high.  
  
“Do you miss hunting?” she asks sometimes in the cloak of night, streetlights illuminating her figure. Broad shoulders, dipped waist, strong thighs.  
  
“No,” Dean says. They both know he’s lying but it doesn’t matter — Sam sacrificed so much to make this choice, and they’ve already saved the damn world more than once. Dean will learn to live without the click of guns and hefty weight of silver knives.  
  
The trade-off is more than worth it.   
  
They rent a shoebox apartment in California where she goes back to college — but this time it’s Berkeley rather than Stanford to escape all those old memories. She passes pre-law with flying colours just like Dean always knew, and settles into the rigorous schedule of criminal law.  
  
“It’s still helping people,” Dean says one night after Sam — again — questions his need to hunt.  
  
“This time I’ll be helping the monsters,” Sam says. “At least sometimes.”  
  
Dean’s not sure how to respond to that so instead he kisses her and fucks her until she falls into an exhausted sleep and those law books are forgotten, at least for a little while.  
  
*  
  
Dean does find one hunt. 18 months into their living arrangements and he’s climbing the walls after reading newspaper after newspaper article of what screams a haunting. He waits until Sam is asleep, curled up in a little ball with moonlight streaming over her. He kisses her, part of him hoping she’ll wake up and stop him, but all he gets is a sweet smile.  
  
The salt and burn is routine, easy, but Dean is out of practice. The ghost tosses him against a wall and Dean limps away with his whole left side scratched to hell.  
  
Sam is awake. Waiting for him. She runs from the house to his car and rips open the door before he’s even stopped.  
  
“Where the fuck were you?” Her eyes are wide, her hair frazzled. She hasn’t even put on shoes.   
  
“Sam—“ he tries.  
  
“Were you hunting?” Anger flies from her voice. “Alone?”  
  
“What do you think I did when you ran away from Stanford?”  
  
Sam visibly recoils, the anger in her face morphing into pain. Dean regrets the words as soon as they fall from his mouth.  
  
“Sam—“ he tries again, but she’s already turned back to the house. The door slams before he’s even out of the car.  
  
*  
  
Dean is cleaning his wound in the bathroom — trying hard to silently hiss through gritted teeth — when Sam knocks.  
  
“What?” he bites, harsher than intended.   
  
“Want me to stitch you up?”  
  
“What?” Confusion this time.  
  
“I could see you wincing,” she says. The door opens a crack and she peaks in. “Do you want a hand?”  
  
“It’s just a graze,” Dean says, but he doesn’t tell her to go away. “Looks worse than it is.”  
  
She sits on the toilet and leans over to where he’s perched on the tub. Gently, she touches the graze that extends from under Dean’s arm all the way to his hip.   
  
“Definitely a flesh wound,” she says. “In the medical sense — not the Dean Winchester sense.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean says. He gives her the now red-mottled white cloth he was using to clean it. “Think I got all the dirt out.”  
  
She studies it for a moment, featherlight fingers running over the deeper of the cuts. “It seems okay.”  
  
Dean stands. “I told you. And it was just a ghost, Sammy — an easy hunt. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”  
  
She looks up at him. Puppy dog eyes that had never changed, even with the rest of her body. “I can’t lose you, Dean. Not now. I’ll hunt with you, if that’s what you want—“  
  
Dean cuts her off with a kiss. “Are you happy here? Are you happy as  _you_?”  
  
Sam actually seems to think about it for a moment, which Dean is grateful for; he doesn’t want some generic answer fired off in the moment. He needs to know her, her soul.  
  
“Can I keep you?” She asks finally.  
  
“I’m never leaving you, Sam,” Dean says. “And if that means I can’t hunt, I’ll deal. I promise. No more leaving in the middle of the night.”  
  
He knows there has to be more of a conversation. More of a conclusion, but for now it seems to be enough. Sam tosses the dirty rag into the clothes hamper and grabs Dean’s hand, leading him to their room.  
  
There’ll be time for all that tomorrow.


End file.
